


I'll shove my nightstick up your ass

by gross_batpanda



Series: Chicagoland [11]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - Punk, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blackmail sex, Chicago (City), Crossover Pairings, Daddy Kink, Double the Washington Double the Fun, Dubious Consent, Gross, M/M, Traumatic Bonding, backroom deals, dirty cop, sexual predator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gross_batpanda/pseuds/gross_batpanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George had told Ben everything was fine, don't worry, this is all perfectly legal, it's just people don't always know to mind their own damn business, that's why this has to stay secret , but maybe George had it wrong.</p><p>The gross crossover dubcon porn ft. Cjack Washington that literally nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll shove my nightstick up your ass

**Author's Note:**

> There's no nightstick fucking, but there's fucked up power dynamics, dubcon, and traumatic bonding. Mind the tags.

George Custis radioed for backup. They hadn't showed up when he got the call from dispatch about skinhead assholes harassing the bouncer at some club on Milwaukee, but they'd have to come around eventually with three guys handcuffed and looking worse for wear on the sidewalk outside the dingy venue. He always got his shit handled, no matter what bullshit the department threw at him.

A tall, broad-shouldered tattooed man was working with the bouncer to clear out the club, and prevent rubberneckers. It was nice to see a guy go out of the way to make his job easier instead of harder; he'd been to a few calls to other clubs and house shows where punk assholes refused to cooperate, or acted like they were legal experts because they had read one goddamn ACLU “Know Your Rights” pamphlet.

Once the stragglers cleared out, the man stepped over one of the skinheads and offered him a cigarette.

“George Washington. I own the place. Thanks, you were a real help tonight.”

“George Custis. Chicago PD. What a coincidence.” He shook his head at the cigarette--the wife had been nagging him to quit, and she'd bitch and moan if he came home smelling like smoke, and radioed _again_ as the other George lit up.

The other George’s knuckles were tattooed, no wedding ring--definitely not Custis’s type, but nicer looking than most of the slobs he encountered on his beat. Looked vaguely familiar.

The last of the crowd trickled out. Some skinny Latino kid grabbed the last of the man’s Luckies, tucked one behind his ear, and lit another one. He mumbled a “see you around, I guess.” before slinking off. He looked young--too young to be hanging out at a bar this late. He gave one of his trademark stern looks to Washington, the kind that usually got scumbags talking and free blowjobs from rentboys.

“That kid old enough to smoke?”

Washington didn't even flinch. “Don't worry about it.” He looked him looked him up and down, scrutinizing. “Haven't I seen you hanging around Oak Street Beach, officer?”

 _That’s_ where Custis recognized him. Now he remembered: the guy was smoking a cigarette while some kid barely out of high school knelt between his legs. He wasn't one to judge, as he was doing the exact same thing as few yards away.

His backup finally showed up, acting all dour and put-upon, as usual. Washington had stepped back into the club,and returned with another pack of cigarettes.  He pressed them into his hand. “Here. Looks like you could use them. I promise to keep your little secret. Have a good evening, officer.” The smug bastard was gone in a flash, and Custis headed back to the station, not looking forward to his end of shift paperwork. 

When Custis got back into his cruiser, he pulled out the pack of cigarettes. It was an unwrapped box, and when he opened it, he found a roll of 20 dollar bills instead. His resentment faded. He could work with this. He could work with Washington. 

  


###

  


Every time the bus lurches, Ben’s stomach drops. He wants to turn back, but that'd only make things worse.

He kept spotting that cop, at the train station, outside school, until one day his pickup had idled up next to Ben as he was walking home from school. He was in his uniform, and when he said “Get in”, a chill had ran up his spine.

_Look, you're in a very precarious position. George can get in a lot of trouble, you know. The kind of trouble that’ll put him in jail. And you'd have to testify, and tell everyone what happened. Everyone would know, your parents, your teachers, your brothers._

Ben had pleaded _no please no I'll do anything don't send George to jail, my dad would kill me_ . George had told Ben everything was fine, _don't worry, this is all perfectly legal, it's just people don't always know to mind their own damn business, that's why this has to stay secret,_  but maybe George had it wrong. The cop seemed pretty certain, and it wasn't like Ben could just go and ask his parents for clarification.

The cop had smiled and put his hand on Ben’s thigh, squeezing it, and said _Don't worry, I think we can work something out._

Ben yanks the cord when the bus is a few blocks away, and it stops in front of the shabby motel. He sees the pickup truck, and walks over to the room number the cop had given him. He can do this. He can do this for George. He knocks on the door.

It opens a crack, and Officer Custis steps aside as Ben walks in. “Glad you could make it”.

He’s wearing a tight white beater and his navy uniform pants. Ben tries not to stare too much at his chest, or his thighs, or the sizeable bulge in his unzipped pants.

He sits on the bed, and gestures to the spot next to him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Ben wasn't expecting this. He was expecting to get slammed against the door, or thrown on the bed, or shoved to his knees with a cock jammed down his throat. He fumbled with his coat and sat on the creaky mattress covered with a hideously patterned bedspread.

A large hand stroked his chin and tilted Ben’s head forward into a kiss. His kisses were soft and gentle, nothing like George’s. He tasted better, all mouthwash and spearmint gum. Ben clambered over and straddled his lap. “Good boy”. The cop’s hands tugged at Ben’s t-shirt. “Take this off sweetheart, I wanna see you”.

Ben pulls off his shirt, and Custis licks and sucks on Ben’s nipples until he's grasping and writhing in the officer's lap. He notices his strong arms, he could lift Ben easily, and Ben can feel his strength even as he's holding him in his lap. _He could kill you and get away with it_ , his brain unhelpfully reminds him, and Ben freezes momentarily.

The officer stops, and kisses Ben, one hand massaging his neck. “You alright?”

“Yeah”, Ben lies, and he bites back a whine as the other man sucks on his earlobe. “Relax baby, I'm gonna make this good for you.”

  


###

  


The cop’s fingers make Ben see stars, and he doesn't stop Ben from grinding back and forth on the bedspread, _like the desperate little slut you are, Benjamin._ George wouldn't let him do this: He'd hold Ben up by his hips, and lay a hand on the back of his thighs if he didn't stay still. “You like this, don't you?”. Ben groaned, he was close, much too close. “If you don't stop-- _shit--_ I'm gonna--”

“Go on”, the cop growls, “Show Daddy how much you like it”.

His words send Ben over the edge, shame and embarrassment mixing with intense pleasure. He hears the slick sounds of lube against skin, and the sound of a condom box being opened. He arches his back and lifts his ass in the air. He turns his head around to see the cop slowly stroking his cock. “Is this how you want me?”

“No. Get up. Off the bed.” Ben scrambles to comply as the other man yanked off the soiled bedspread and laid down on his back. He rolls a condom on his cock, which is thicker than George’s, a little shorter, but still intimidating.

“Think you can be a good boy and ride me?” He still hadn't taken off his shirt or pants and Ben felt exposed. He swallowed the lump in his throat and choked out a “yes”. Yes, he can be good. He'll be very good. Being good means he and George won't get in trouble.

Ben straddles the cop and slowly lowers himself onto his cock. He tries to stifle a whine, but the cop encourages him. “Be as loud as you want, no one's gonna bother us.”. Ben begins to groan in earnest as he lifts himself up and down the officer’s cock. The cop lets Ben set his own pace, rather than pounding into him at a furious pace, and it's _good,_  better than being fucked by George, if Ben’s being totally honest with himself. Ben rolls his hips and he can feel the heat building at the base of his spine, he's hard again _because you're a horny little slut, aren't you Tallmadge? God, I'm gonna have to milk it out of you, aren't I?_ Ben sucks his fingers and plays with his nipples, and the cop responds by snapping his hips up to meet Ben’s pace. He hovers his hand around his cock, unsure if he's allowed to touch himself.

“You wanna touch yourself?”

“Yes, _please_ ”

“Please what?”

“Please, Daddy”. Ben’s skin burns with shame, but the cop loved it and choked out _go on, show Daddy what you look like when you play with yourself._

Ben stroked himself rapidly, eyes wrenched shut. He tried to focus on the cock he was riding, and not the sound of George’s voice snarling _dirty little bitch you'll fuck anything with a pulse_. He comes in his fist, and smears his hand on his chest. The cop's hips stutter and still, and he grunts out a _God damn, son_ as he comes. 

The cop lifts Ben off his flagging dick, and Ben collapses into the rough bedsheets. He can hear the sink, the rustle of clothes, the heavy sounds of the officer’s utility belt being clicked back into place. He thinks he hears the familiar sounds of the Tercel, but there's no way--.

\--There's a knock on the door, and Ben manages to lift his head up to see the cop check the peephole, before sinking back down.

There's low voices, the cop _muttering go take care of your boy and drop the key off at the front desk when you're done,_  and then footsteps and the familiar smell of George’s cigarettes.

Ben feels the bed sink down, and then a rough hand is stroking his back, and a familiar voice speaks softly in his ear.

“Hey, you did so good.” George sucked bruises into Ben’s skin as he stroked his hair. “I'm sorry, I should've been more careful. But that cop’s not gonna bother us anymore. I'll make it up up to you, I promise.”

Ben wants to say no, he wasn't good, he's a little _slut_ that enjoyed it way too much, but he's exhausted and so he lets George take care of him, cooing praise.

  


###

  


The greasy voice of the ward supervisor oozes through the phone all _so sorry for the inconvenience, looks like we had our paperwork mixed up, your noise levels are within the acceptable range, we value small business owners like yourself Mr. Washington, if you need anything at all._  As much as George hated owing favors for that damn cop, Custis was good at taking care of things. Made everything worth it, even if Ben was getting a little too mouthy and demanding, all _slower faster harder lower_. No matter, he'll be off to college and out of George’s hair soon.

In the meantime, there's poker night. Custis arrives with his usual bottle of bourbon, and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. “Vice raided a bath house. I was able to grab these for you. Looks homemade but definitely your taste.” They've got the generic Maxell covers, and only the “JAILBAIT FAGGOT SLUTS” label gives away their contents. Might be worth watching later.

They settle into their game, each trying to bluff the other. They don't talk too much. George prefers it that way. He does grunt out an “Appreciate you clearing things up about my noise complaint. Ward supervisor called today.”

“No problem, George. That bastard gets a wild hair up his ass about everything.”

They keep playing in relative silence, until the cop breaks it with a smirking “How's that little boyfriend of yours?”

George looks up at his cards. Fucker' _s smiling_. “He's not my goddamn boyfriend.”, he snarls before taking a generous swig of his beer.

“Coulda fooled me. Kid’s in love with you. Does he send you flowers?”

“Knock it off.” Maybe George should've tried dealing with the noise complaints himself. Custis merely chuckled.

“Put a leash on that boy and he'd follow you anywhere. You're a lucky man.”

George grabbed the cop’s bottle of Maker's, took a deep swig, and slammed it down on the table. “You wanna stay here and play cards or go back home to that cunt wife of yours?”

Custis tries his hardest, heavy-browed glare, but he finally figures out his place, and pours a measure of bourbon into his glass and slouches in his chair.

Later, after the cop has left and George had watched his new tape twice through, he called Billy. “Think you can handle club business for a while? I need to take a vacation.?

“Sure thing, where you headed?”

“Nowhere.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song P. I. G. by Reagan Youth.


End file.
